


the sand in the hourglass is running low

by sendthewolves



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendthewolves/pseuds/sendthewolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Henriksen walks out of the Monument, Colorado Sheriff’s Department with a demon inside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sand in the hourglass is running low

**Author's Note:**

> AU from Jus in Bello, playing loosely with the timeline between that and Time is on My Side. Written for the ever lovely scorpiod1 for spnthreesome.

Victor Henriksen walks out of the Monument, Colorado Sheriff’s Department with a demon inside him. It’s a low voice in his head, in his blood; pulling his strings and whispering about paying a visit to the Winchesters.

 

He’d though it was bad before, when one of these bastards used his hands to pull the trigger on an innocent man, trying desperately to drop the gun but his own muscles wouldn’t listen to him. This is worse. Now he knows what’s happening to him, what this thing curled up in his bones is capable of.

 

When the little girl’s white eyes had turned on him and she smiled wide, showing off a row of pearly-white baby teeth, Victor’s stomach dropped. His gun was in its holster, useless against these things but instinct said go for it. She had laughed then, when his fingers twitched uselessly by his sides and his back slammed against the wall. She’d laughed and said, “Watch this.”

 

“Just like old times,” the thing in his head says, like they’re sharing a joke. It’s true, hunting down Dean Winchester in a twisted parody of all the months before. Victor refuses to answer but he knows it catches the thought; it chuckles with his voice, low and mean.

 

He is standing in a gas station holding up his badge, and the girl behind the counter snaps her gum and answers all the demon’s questions.

 

“Yeah,” she says, looking back down at the picture of Dean Winchester in her hands. “Must have been two days ago. Him and some tall guy.”

 

“Did they happen to drop anything about where they might be headed?” the demon asks, pocketing the badge.

 

She shakes her head, “Not a thing, just paid for their gas and split. Bought a couple bags of chips too, guy seemed nice enough.”

 

“Sociopaths often do,” it says, and Victor knows that it’s thinking about killing this girl. It wants to grab her by the throat and squeeze, he can feel it in his hands, the thrum of violent need. “Did you see which way they went?”

 

Run, he thinks at her and feels his mouth quirk in amusement. Run run run.

 

“Took off west,” she says, absently pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

 

“Thank you for your time ma’am.” It enjoys this, playing the part and letting Victor feel everything it feels, everything it wants. It’s a guessing game they play, as Victor wonders if each person they meet will survive the encounter.

 

It turns, heads for the door, and Victor’s careful not to let relief flow through him just in case that changes its mind.

 

“These guys,” the girl calls out after him and Victor wants to scream at her. “They dangerous?”

 

The demon stops in the doorway, and a smile splits his face in two, a shark’s smile.

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” it says, turning around and taking a step back towards her. “You have no idea.”

 

Victor doesn’t know how long it takes to track down Dean and Sam. He’s not awake the whole time, only when the demon wants him to feel the slick slide of blood on his hands. When it wants to play with him.

 

He’s awake now, to feel the dull thump of his fist on a motel door. The cool metal off a blade is tucked against his back, his holster strapped across his shoulder.

 

There’s movement in the room, hushed voices and the shuffle of movement, before the door cracks open and Dean is staring at him with wide eyes.

 

“Well, you’re unexpected,” he says. Dean must have a gun on him, it’s the least Victor has come to expect. All he can do is hope that Dean shoots first, that it’ll be over.

 

“Dean! Gotta tell you, buddy,” it says, happily, hand curling around the hilt of the knife. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

 

“Should’ve called,” Dean says, and then he’s bringing a flask out of nowhere. Water hits Victor in the face, and the demon scream, pulling the blade and lunging forward, tackling Dean to the ground.

 

“Son of a-" Dean shouts, as the knife sinks into his shoulder. “Sam!”

 

Then Sam Winchester is grabbing him from behind and hauling him up and into the room. It throws Sam off, makes to go after him and then freezes. He’s standing in the middle of one of those spray painted pentagrams they used back in Colorado – a devil’s trap, they called it.

 

“Nice try,” says the demon, reaching for the holster.

 

“Looking for this?” Dean says, standing now and holding up Victor’s gun. “Sorry, pal. Time to go back downstairs.”

 

Sam moves to stand beside Dean, eyes darting over his bloody shoulder before flicking back to Victor, and he begins reciting the exorcism. He feels the demon forcibly contract inside him, like it’s being pulled out of every individual bone, vein and nerve and into one lump in his throat.

 

“Go ahead, asshole,” it says, choking on a laugh, gaze narrowing in on Dean. “We both know your expiration date’s coming. I’ll save you a spot with a view.”

 

“You do that.” Dean says, voice hard-edged, and then Victor’s head is being thrown back, smoke is tearing its way out of his throat and everything goes black.

 

The first thing he thinks when he opens his eyes is, I’m alive. He didn’t expect that.

 

Groaning, he starts to sit up. There’s a hand on his shoulder immediately and someone says, “Henriksen?”

 

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is rough and talking hurts, but this is the first word he has said in god knows how long and it feels amazing. “Yeah, it’s – I’m me.”

 

Dean is crouching beside him, helping him sit, and he nods. His hands are moving over Victor and he notes that Dean’s shoulder is bandaged. “How you feeling, besides the obvious? Anything feel fatally injured?” Victor shakes his head and breaths in a few times before answering.

 

“No, I think I’m okay,” he rubs a hand over his face, flexes his arms and legs just to prove to himself that he can. Dean offers him a hand up, which he isn’t too proud to take, and he sits down on one of the beds. “Jesus, it’s been …how long has it been?”

 

Sam and Dean share a look and he steels himself. Sam sighs and says, “It’s been three weeks. We thought you were dead. It was on the news; they called it a gas leak.”

 

“Lilith,” Victor says slowly, and it all flashes behind his eyes, the screams and the blood. He swallows thickly. “The little girl. She killed them, all of them. Except me.”

 

Victor closes his eyes then, head bowed. He can feel their sympathetic stares but he can’t bring himself to look at them. It’s easier to concentrate on breathing for a moment, wiggling his toes in his boots because his body is his again, and he lets everything sink in.

 

Legally, he is dead. One of many killed in a tragic accident. It’s a strange feeling, knowing that his family, his co-workers, his exes have been mourning him. There is the option of going back, trying to explain away why he disappeared after the supposed accident. But there’s a trail of bodies behind him that any digging could turn up.

 

Victor thinks about his mother in her retirement home. His life insurance will cover that, and as guilty as the thought makes him, better she have a dead son than a suspected serial killer. God, he should have visited her more. He always meant to, but never seemed to have the time. Too busy obsessing over Dean Winchester: serial killer. Look where that stuck him.

Sam and Dean live around him for the first couple of days, and he’s grateful for it. He sleeps a lot, lets his body recover, and even dreams of all the faces he’s seen go slack and dead-eyed don’t wake him at first.

 

Really, it’s probably a good sign when he wakes in a cold sweat, echo of little girl giggling in his ears and the wet warmth of blood on his hands. At least he’s getting over the all-encompassing exhaustion. He stumbles into the bathroom, turns on the tap and washes his hands until they feel clean again. When he returns to the other room he notices that Sam and Dean are both asleep in the other bed. He hadn’t realized they’d been sharing, but that seems stupid now, like he’d been under the bizarre impression that they never slept at all.

 

He wakes up ravenous. Just the thought of food had turned his stomach before, but now it growls embarrassingly loud.

 

“Diner, then?” Dean says, stepping out of the bathroom, toweling at his wet hair.

 

“Sounds good to me,” Sam says, closing his laptop with a snap.

 

Victor drinks two cups of bitter black coffee and practically inhales his plate of eggs and sausage before he looks up at them. They look a little ridiculous, squeezed into one side of the small booth; wide shoulders pressed together and Victor smiles into his third cup of coffee. Dean’s lips tug up at the corners. He could be sharing Victor’s amusement, or maybe it’s just his response to seeing Victor smile at all.

 

“So,” he says finally, after days of thinking it. “Lilith. You two are going after her, right?”

 

Sam’s jaw tightens and his voice is low and dangerous when he says, “We’re going to kill her.”

 

“I want in,” Victor replies, watching them for reaction. They look to each other first, seem to have a whole conversation with a couple of raised eyebrows.

 

“You sure?” Dean asks, turning back to face Victor. “We could help you get sorted out with a new identity. It doesn’t have to be this.”

 

“Yeah,” Victor says, thinking of white eyes, black eyes, dead eyes. He leans forward, looks at Dean and then Sam. “It does.”

 

“All right,” Sam says, leaning back and nodding, eyes still dark with that deadly focus.

 

Dean drums his fingertips against the table and says, “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

 

Turns out salt doesn’t work on everything. Victor’s unloading round after round into the black dog’s snarling face, but the damn thing just keeps coming, claws swiping out and catching his leg. He goes down hard, loses the useless shotgun and pulls his Glock, the bullets slow it down at least, knocking it back, but it doesn’t go down, growls and leaps towards him.

 

Somewhere, someone shouts, “Henriksen!” and a body comes barreling out of nowhere, slamming into the fucker and knocking it to the side. There’s the thump of bodies hitting the ground, a yell and then an eerie, inhuman yowl. He gets himself on his feet in time to see Dean pushing the black dog’s stiff corpse of himself, knife buried deep in its heart.

 

Boots pound against dirt and Sam is at his side. He claps Victor on the shoulder on his way past, heading straight for Dean, pulling him up and patting him down for injuries. Dean is covered in thick, animal blood, he tolerates Sam’s ministrations for a minute and then pushes him away, grinning.

 

“”M fine, Sam. Got that sucker good,” he plants his boot on its chest and pulls the knife free. “When in doubt: silver.”

 

“You telling me that was a lucky guess?” Victor says, leaning back against a tree.

 

Sam snorts, “You’d be surprised how many of them are.”

 

“And here I thought you were supposed to be the experts,” Victor says, grinning, and Dean laughs.

 

“Saved your ass didn’t I, wise guy?” Dean says, picking up Victor’s discarded shotgun and tossing it to him.

 

“Yeah,” he catches it, one handed, slinging it over his shoulder. “I suppose you did.”

 

Victor is no stranger to living out of a suitcase, not with his job. But he always had his apartment, a place to come back to. Standing in the middle of his latest motel room, empty and anonymous, he wonders what’s happened to his stuff. His wedding rings, three together in the lock box in his closet. The baseball glove his father gave him after his little league team won their first game. The things he’s carried with him from home to home that he always took for granted, gone.

 

The walls in this place are paper thin; sitting on the end of his bed Victor can hear Dean and Sam next door, the dull thud of footsteps, the creak of the bedsprings.

 

They’re fighting, in sharp, hushed voices that he still can’t help but hear. Something about the Colt, and Bela; the gun they need to kill Lilith, and the woman who stole it. Sam hisses something about weeks and then they go quiet. A door closes, and then someone is knocking on Victor’s. He feels caught out for a moment, even though he wasn’t eaves dropping on purpose.

 

“You look like a man who could use a drink,” Dean says when Victor opens the door. “I know I could.”

 

He can’t argue with that.

 

Dean tosses back three shots of whiskey, barely wincing at the burn. Victor sips a double of scotch and watches him. There’s something they aren’t telling him, something dark lurking beneath the surface of every smile and joke and look. He hasn’t asked so far, doesn’t seem like his place, but it’s been niggling at him.

 

“Gimme another one,” Dean says to the bartender, tapping the rim of his glass. She complies and he swallows it down.

 

“Really needed that drink, huh?” Victor says, watching the ripple of Dean’s throat.

 

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice is roughened from the whiskey, and when he turns to Victor he looks a little drunk, but mostly he just looks sad.

 

“All right, what’s the deal, Dean?” Victor can’t keep it in anymore, lets all the FBI authority flow into his voice. He was always good at getting answers. “You and Sam, there’s something you’re holding back and it’s scaring the crap out of both of you. “

 

“We really that obvious?” is Dean’s only reply, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Damn straight you are. If we’re in this together then I need to know what’s going on.” Victor locks eyes with him, and Dean doesn’t look away.

 

“Yeah, I guess you do,” he says after a moment’s consideration. “Right. You hear what the demon said before we pulled it out of you?”

 

“About you having an expiration date?” Victor remembers slowly.

 

“That’s it,” Dean looks down at his empty glass, traces a finger through the small pool of spilled whiskey on the bar. “Long story short: Sam died,” he chokes a little on that, “and I sold my soul to bring him back. Got one year and it’s nearly up. “

 

Victor stares at him and Dean offers a loose shrug. Sold his soul. One year. He draws in a breath, lets it out, and still has no idea what to say. Lifting the glass to his lips, Victor drains the contents and signals for another.

 

Dean is still staring at him, Victor doesn’t know what he’s watching for but he has to say something. All that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Dean says. “Don’t think about it, just focus on getting Lilith. She’s the one who holds the contract.” His voice goes strange on the word “contract” and he shakes his head slightly before continuing. “It’s Sammy I’m worried about. “

 

Christ, Victor can’t imagine Sam without Dean. Thinking of either of them without the other, it just seems wrong. Fucked up, but true.

 

Slapping a few bills down on the bar, Dean stands. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

 

He trails Dean into the parking lot. The streetlights cast a washed out glow around them and everything is silent. The motel is just across the street and Victor heads straight towards it, weaving around the few cars parked haphazardly around the lot. Dean stops suddenly and Victor walks straight into him. Before he can move around him, Dean catches his arm and tugs him close, so they’re face to face. Dean’s expression is unreadable and Victor’s eyebrows furrow, his mouth going dry.

 

“Dean,” he says, and Dean shakes his head, lips his lips and then he’s closing the small distance between them and pressing their mouths together. Kissing him. Dean Winchester is kissing him, and Victor is just standing there and letting him. Dean’s tongue flicks over his bottom lip and Victor parts them without thinking, lets Dean lick into his mouth and then his brain kicks back in and he pushes Dean away.

 

Dean’s breathing loudly, and so is Victor. They stand silently, just looking at each other for a moment before Victor finds his voice and says, “You’re drunk.”

 

“A little,” Dean agrees, still far too close; his body heat seeping into Victor’s skin. “Doesn’t change anything.”  
Victor sighs, scrubs a hand over his face and takes a few steps away. “Go to bed, Dean. Talk to your brother. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

He feels Dean’s gaze on his back for a moment as he walks away, then Dean lets out an audible sigh and his footsteps follow Victor back to the motel.

 

That night he dreams of Nancy, standing in front of him with her dark hair and her Bambi eyes. She’s saying, “It’s your fault, you know. You brought them there. You couldn’t protect us,” she laughs, “You had no idea what you were messing with. Now you do, and you’re still messing with it.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out a hand to touch her and it comes away bloody. Her expression is almost sympathetic.

 

“I know, but sorry won’t bring me back.” Her eyes roll back then, turning all milky-white and her voice is too young suddenly. “Tell Dean I’m waiting for him.”

 

He jerks awake with his heart pounding in his throat. His hands fumble the light on; like that’ll drive all the memories away.

 

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying, into the room at large, voice all cracked and rough, but there is no one there to hear it.

 

He fills a plastic cup with water from the bathroom tap and carries it back to bed, sitting with his feet on the floor and sipping at it while his head clears.

 

There’s a rustle of movement through the wall, and he hopes it’s not because they heard him. More rustling, sheets maybe, and low voices. He can’t make out the words and doesn’t try, just sips his water and tries to shut them out. Thinking about Dean isn’t a good idea right now, thinking about Dean, and all the long looks he’s shared with him, and the one’s when Dean’s back was turned that Victor never gave much thought to. The kiss, that Victor stopped because he thought he should, not because he wanted to.

 

Something thumps against the wall, and one of them – Dean, he thinks, hisses, “Shut up.”

 

“Why?” Sam’s saying, not quiet at all. “Afraid he’ll hear us, Dean. Worried about what he’ll think.”  
“Aren’t you?” Dean replies and then their voices are muffled and Victor is staring at the wall with no clue what he should be thinking.

 

This isn’t right, it doesn’t fit. They can’t be. There’s another thud, a headboard? No. It fits with who he thought they were; sick, twisted cold-blooded killers. But he was wrong. He must be wrong. And Dean, he kissed him, just hours earlier. None of it makes sense.

 

Victor finds himself watching them more closely after that night. He and Dean don’t talk about the kiss. Sam sometimes shoots these strange looks between the two of them, but he doesn’t say anything. It becomes hard not to focus in on the small, casual touches that pass between them, the way they let their knees rest together under all the different diner tables.

 

They talk about Lilith, about Bela, who seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. Dean’s pretty blunt and easy about everything, but Sam, he gets tense, angry. Victor goes to the bathroom to give them a moment and when he opens the door Dean’s hand is on Sam’s wrist, thumb rubbing circles over Sam’s bare skin. He coughs and Dean’s hand snaps back.

 

The dreams get worse, and Victor gets sick of lying alone, staring at the wall and over-analyzing any sound from the next room. They’re currently holed up in a no star motel off the highway. It’s late and they’ve been driving all day, but he’s not ready to attempt sleep. Instead, he walks the half-mile along the road to the truck stop they passed. The day was hot and some of that warmth lingers in the air, but the breeze has a chill to it that pricks at his skin. He’s really got to get his own car, he always hated riding shotgun and being relegated to the back seat is even worse. Yeah, he’ll work on that.

 

He’s surprise when the first thing he sees when the door swings closed behind him, and he gives the place a cursory once over, is Sam, hunched over at a table by the window. Victor doesn’t want to intrude, considers heading for a table on the other side of the room, but Sam looks up and nods him over and that’s that.

 

The waitress brings him coffee and refills Sam’s cup when he asks. She gives him a look like she’s afraid he’s only one cup away from ODing on caffeine and Sam ignores it. They sit in mostly comfortable silence, both sipping their coffee and watching headlights pass by out the window.

 

“I was possessed once,” Sam says, suddenly. Victor puts his cup down, but doesn’t say anything. Just lets Sam continue. “That’s what you dream about, right? That’s why you’re here.”

 

“Among other things,” Victor says carefully and Sam nods. It occurs to him that he and Sam have never spent time together like this, without Dean. Yeah, the two of them are kind of a package deal, but it still seems strange. The three of them have been living in each other’s pockets for a couple months now, but it feels much longer. “Did it? The demon - “

 

“Yeah,” Sam swallows thickly, muscle in his jaw twitching. “It killed someone. And I wasn’t awake for it, but his blood was all over my shirt, under my nails. But it wasn’t me. And it wasn’t you.”

 

“I keep telling myself that.” Doesn’t change anything. They’re still dead.

 

“Don’t stop,” Sam’s leaning forward, catching his eye and holding the contact. “I know you think it doesn’t help, but it’s important. It wasn’t you, and you survived. Now you have the chance to help other people. That’s important too.”

 

They fall quiet again, and Victor thinks about Dean, about the deal he made for his brother’s life, and tries to imagine loving someone that much. Having someone else love you that much. It’s surprising how much the idea scares him.

 

“I just need to know something,” Sam catches him off guard, like he’s been listening to Victor’s thoughts. “This thing, with Dean. I’m going to do whatever it takes to save him. Anything. And you don’t have to be part of that, it’d probably be better if you weren’t. But, I need to know, are you with us in this?”

 

He studies Sam for a moment, the dangerous glint in his eye, the tension in his shoulders and the way he’s studying Victor right back. He searches Sam’s face, but finds he doesn’t have to search himself for an answer; it’s right on the tip of his tongue. “Yeah, I’m with you.”

 

Back at the motel, they linger in the parking lot, neither heading straight for their door. Victor thinks about kissing Dean in the parking lot of a bar three states away. It’s still unspoken between them, could be left to fade away and Victor hasn’t let it go. Doesn’t want to.

 

“Hey,” Sam says, hand on Victor’s shoulder. The light is out in Sam and Dean’s room, but the glow of the television is visible through the thin curtains. “You wanna come in?”

 

He nods and follows Sam inside. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to sleep, or that he doesn’t want to be alone. He wants to be with them.

 

Dean is sitting on the bed closest to the door. He glances over when Sam enters the room and then double takes when Victor follows.

 

“Hey,” Dean says, a little cautiously, flicking off the TV. “What’s up?”

 

Hovering beside him, Sam shrugs and Victor doesn’t know what to say, mentally following back all the signs that have lead him here. He knows where this is going; he’d have been shit at his job if he wasn’t observant enough to work it out. Sure, he could still walk away, but he said it himself. He’s with them in this.

 

Sam kisses him then and Victor only hesitates for a second before kissing him back, shutting out the voice saying just how fucked up this is. How this could fuck everything up. When he and Sam break apart, Victor looks straight at Dean. He’s watching them, mouth hanging open, shock in his eyes; there’s something else there too.

 

It all snaps into place then, and Victor strides across the room to press his mouth to Dean’s, cupping the back of his neck with one hand and letting the other rest on Dean’s shoulder. Dean kisses back eagerly, lips parting for Victor’s tongue; fingers twisting into the front of Victor’s shirt and holding him close. Warmth presses up against Victor’s back and Sam’s mouth is wet against his neck.

 

Dean pulls back, looking at his brother over Victor’s shoulder. Sam leans forward, body plastered against Victor, and then they are kissing and Victor is sandwiched between them, unable to look away from where their lips meet.

 

They fall back onto the bed, bodies blurring together and Victor loses track of who he’s kissing, who he’s touching and who is touching him. It’s all rough hands, the scrape of stubble and someone breathing hot and wet against his skin.

 

“Oh Jesus,” Dean pants in Victor’s ear, grinding himself against Victor’s thigh. He rolls over, so their crotches rub together and Dean feels just as achingly hard as Victor is. Sam’s hand is on Victor’s hip, stretched over Dean and there are too many layers of clothing between them all. He tugs at Dean’s shirt and they both get the message, the three of them scrambling to free each other from jeans and shirts, Sam and Victor both kicking off their shoes, and then it’s all skin on skin on skin.

 

A hand wraps around his dick, sweat-slick and rough, working him without finesse. Victor moans against Sam’s neck, Sam’s hair tickling his forehead. Dean stretches up kisses Sam and then him. Victor tries to separate their tastes, but then Dean is moving down and his mouth joins Sam’s hand on Victor’s cock and he doesn’t think about anything but the sensation. His fingers tangle in Dean’s hair, guiding the bob of his head, fucking up into the hot, wetness of his mouth.

 

Sam shifts, crawling behind Dean and resting one hand on his hip, the other fisting his dick, stroking, slow and even until Dean is writhing between them. He keeps sucking Victor off, even as Sam works him closer and closer to climax, and Victor isn’t sure how much longer either of them are going to last.

 

His fingers twist in Dean’s hair when he comes. Pulling tight, and holding him there, and Dean complies happily. He looks up at him, along the line of Victor’s body and swallows, and fuck, he’s spent, dick beginning to soften in Dean’s mouth, but that flares up a fresh wave of arousal.

 

Content to lie back for the moment, he watches Sam finish Dean off. The hand is gone from Dean’s hip, and he notices the way Dean’s grinding back – fucking himself on Sam’s fingers and thrusting into Sam’s fist. Dean comes with a final twist of Sam’s wrist, head bent forward, resting on Victor’s leg, breathing these hot little moans into Victor’s skin.

 

Sam stretches himself out along Dean’s back while he recovers, pressing a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck, and his hand trails up Dean’s side, along Victor’s thigh, before rolling to the side and sprawling out on his back. Victor reaches for him, skims his fingertips up his inner thigh, over his balls before closing his hand around Sam’s dick. He hasn’t been with a guy in years, hell, he hasn’t been with anyone since he and Michelle split, but he knows what feels good and he’s never had any complaints.

 

He jerks Sam off, quick and hard, while Dean mouths at his hipbone, teeth nipping at the thin skin stretched over bone. Sam doesn’t last long, already slick with pre-come before Victor even touched him. His body goes tense, and he makes a strangled sound in his throat, before all his limbs go loose and relaxed, and they all sort of slump against the mattress, breath heavy and loud in the silent room.

 

Victor’s eyes fall closed, and he lets sleep wash over him. The dreams come, as they do every night, but they don’t wake him.

 

It’s easier than it should be, waking up with a warm body on either side of him. Keeping his eyes closed, he waits for that to change.

 

Dean shifts beside him, mutters, “Ugh, how come I got stuck sleeping in the wet patch?”

 

Sam snorts, “Not the only one, dude. Stop whining, some of us are trying to sleep.”

 

Victor stays silent, and they settle back around him. He waits, but regret doesn’t come.

 

It doesn’t sink in just how serious Sam was when he said anything until Victor realizes why he’s so determined to stay on the Doc Benton case when Dean has a lead on Bela and the gun. Deadly serious, frighteningly so.

 

They fight again, Sam and Dean, and Victor stands to the side and lets them argue it out, but neither gives an inch.

 

Dean goes to leave, turning to Victor and says, “You comin’?”

 

He suddenly feels trapped in the middle; they’re both looking at him like whoever he chooses to stick with wins. “No,” he says firmly and Dean raises an eyebrow. “This thing is killing people. You find the girl; we’ll take care of things here and no one does anything stupid.”

 

They leave town straight after putting Benton in the ground. Sam is still stiff and strange, and Dean seems to be lost in thought about whatever happened with him and Bela. Finally, he pulls out his phone, Victor listens as he talks, clicks with what’s happening. He feels something twist inside him when he realizes that they’re leaving her there to die, no matter what kind of person she seems to be; this woman he’s never meet, she can’t deserve this. No one can.

 

After hanging up on Bela, Dean says, “She gave me a name,” slow, like he’s not sure whether to believe it. Victor leans forward, resting his arms on the seat in front of him. “Crowley. He’s got the Colt.”

 

Sam’s breath is coming hot and rough, Victor can feel it on his cheek. “A demon?”

 

“Yeah, must be hot shit too, if Lilith trusts him with this,” Dean replies, looking at Sam with wide, worried eyes, like he’s afraid of getting his brother’s hopes up. Victor lets his fingers trail over the back of Dean’s neck, stroking the soft, sweat-damp hair there and Dean lets him.

 

The way Sam is nodding to himself makes Victor think Dean’s fears are right, but at the same time he can’t fool himself that it’s not hope he’s feeling unfold, warm in his chest.

 

“So we find him,” Sam says. “We get the Colt back, and we fucking kill Lilith.”

 

“We’ve got a plan then,” Victor says and Sam’s mouth twitches into a brief smile.

 

Dean is quiet for a moment, watching the road while they watch him.

 

“This is it then,” Dean says finally, glancing over the Sam before meeting Victor’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “We’re all in?”

 

The question doesn’t need an answer, not really. Even before this thing between them, before he knew about Dean’s deal, Victor was determined to help them take out Lilith. Avenge Nancy, Reidy and the others. Everyone the demon made him kill; he wants justice for them. And he doesn’t want to lose Dean.

 

“All in,” Victor answers anyway, feeling a wave of excitement, the kind he used to feel when he put some psycho bastard behind bars.

 

In the mirror, he sees Dean’s grin and Sam’s expression of fierce determination. The road rushes by underneath them and Dean guns the engine.


End file.
